


I'd Move Heaven Behind Those Eyes

by CyanideBreathmint



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-22
Updated: 2010-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-13 23:03:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/142692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CyanideBreathmint/pseuds/CyanideBreathmint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames is not a man to do anything halfway, and he is not the kind of person to accept defeat easily. This is the story of what happens when Eames shows up on Arthur’s doorstep in an attempt to turn the tables on him. PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'd Move Heaven Behind Those Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Complete and utter smut, pre-movie, bondage, some D/S elements, rough sex, biting, oral sex, suit porn (Eames wears Boateng in this one, folks!), author obsession with very fast motorcycles and leathers made quite apparent.  
> Notes: This is a sequel to _[You Can Feel My Lips Undress Your Eyes,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/136209)_ which means the _[Craigslist pick-up fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/127344)_ has become its own timeline. Title taken from Interpol’s _[The Heinrich Maneuver](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ha_bppvZ0a8)_. I still have no excuses for this and this is still [photoclerk](http://photoclerk.livejournal.com/)'s fault. Thank you to [labseraph](http://labseraph.livejournal.com/) for the beta.

Arthur didn’t do well on downtime; there was something restless in his nature, like that of a working dog. It was as though the notion of boredom offended him personally, and yet boredom was what he found himself contemplating right now. It had been eight days since he had returned to Los Angeles from Glasgow and various obligations had kept him occupied for the past week, but now he was running out of things to do.

In the end he decided to make another visit to Cobb’s house, to see the children and maybe check on the Kawasaki ZX-12R he kept stashed in the garage there. He spent enough time in hotels and safehouses that owning a car was mostly a waste of property taxes, and whenever he spent enough time in LA to want to get around on his own he would go to Cobb’s and collect the bike, tune it up and then take it back out until his work took him elsewhere again.

Arthur had just finished putting on his leather jacket when he heard a sharp tap at the door. He tried to remember if he had been expecting any deliveries, came up blank, and then looked out the security peephole into the hallway. Standing outside in the hallway with what looked like a bottle of wine and a broad, infuriating grin was Eames. Arthur sighed and contemplated pretending he wasn’t home long enough that Eames would go away, but figured eventually that he would probably have just picked the lock anyway. It was what he himself would have done in such a situation.

Instead he opened the door and waited to see what would happen. “What are you doing here?” he asked. Eames pushed past him and into the apartment. He didn’t bother asking how Eames knew where he lived; such an inquiry would have been trivially easy in any case.

“You will not believe how much this bottle of wine cost me, Arthur,” Eames said archly as he shut and locked the door behind him. “You have some rather expensive tastes.”

“I don’t recall asking you to show up on my doorstep wit –” Arthur’s mouth went dry as he realized Eames was wearing a suit in the most amazing dark gray wool he had ever seen. The thin afternoon light bounced off the cloth and gave it a subtly violet cast.  
“What on _earth_ are you wearing?”

“Oh, a little something I got with my share of the Ferguson take,” Eames said as he hung the wine bottle in its gift bag on the doorknob, his shrug exaggeratedly casual. “12a Savile Row.”

“You are _not_ wearing Boateng,” Arthur wanted to say in disbelief, but Eames was kissing him hard and hot, scratch of stubble against his chin and sharp teeth against his tongue, and all he managed then was a soft groan. He felt his holstered sidearm dig into the muscles of his back and realized dimly that he had let Eames back him into the alcove by the doorway.

“God, I must have been such a good boy for you to have come gift-wrapped like this,” Eames breathed, lips soft against the sliver of skin above the collar of Arthur’s leather jacket.

“I thought we agreed that this wasn’t going to get personal.” Arthur took a long deep breath and tried to ignore the blood roaring in his ears, the sudden sweet friction of his fly against the underside of his cock.

“This isn’t personal,” Eames murmured into the curve of Arthur’s ear. “Like I said, I’m not in love, I’m in lust.” Arthur grasped him by the shoulders as though to push him away, fingers digging into that exquisite wool. Eames was taut and tense under the suit, his gray eyes almost black in the dim light, pupils huge with arousal as he reached up and grasped Arthur by the wrists, fingers cool against his pulse.

“Nothing personal, huh.” Arthur pulled his right hand free, ran his fingertips against Eames’ mouth, felt a hot velvety tongue lap at his fingertips. He thought then of the times they had fucked and how Eames had begged for it, and grinned despite the reservation he felt.

“Well, maybe there is a little bit of vengeance-seeking in this,” Eames breathed as he batted Arthur’s hand away, tugged roughly at the collar of his leather jacket to pull him closer. “I was looking for the bruises on my hips after the last time. God, Arthur, I could still feel you in me when I woke,” he said in a long rush of breath, his hand creeping up the hem of Arthur’s t-shirt, fingers playing lightly over the Glock holstered behind his right hip and then sliding towards the damp skin on the small of his back, above the waistband of his leathers.

Arthur took hold of Eames’ necktie and pulled him in for another kiss. He pressed his open mouth against Eames’ jawline, stubble scratchy under his lips and tongue as Eames rucked up the hem of his t-shirt and brushed a thumb against his nipple. He palmed the sensitive underside of Arthur’s cock with his other hand, stroking him firmly through his biking leathers. The heat and friction made him gasp, and he felt the wall against his shoulders again as his knees wobbled. Arthur tried to shrug off his leather jacket so he could tug his t-shirt off, but Eames pulled the collar down around his shoulders before he could, pinning his arms to his sides.

“I want you to beg this time.” Eames purred as he held Arthur against the wall so he couldn’t struggle. “I want to work you over, gag that smart mouth of yours with my cock. Do you want me to, Arthur?”

Arthur didn’t speak; he wasn’t sure he could at this point and he didn’t know what to say. Instead he tried to pull away and free his arms, kicked at Eames’ ankle as a flush of indignation and frustration filled his chest and gut, mingling with the need he felt welling up at the base of his spine. Eames only grinned crookedly and turned him around roughly, grinding his face into the wall so he couldn’t kick.

“I could just turn around and leave, you know,” Eames said before he bit down hard on the nape of Arthur’s neck. Arthur groaned and then gasped as he felt the heat of Eames’ hard cock through his leathers, against his ass. “Or would you rather I fuck your mouth, Arthur?”

“Yes,” Arthur hissed, his mouth dry and parched like a desert, the wall rough against his face.

“Yes what?” Eames asked. He grabbed a handful of Arthur’s hair and pulled him away from the wall, steadied him with his free hand.

“I want you in me,” Arthur gasped, a sensation of falling in his temples, a fluttering in his chest as he relinquished control. “Any way you want. _Please._ ”

“Wonderful. The safeword is the Scottish play.” Eames flipped Arthur around and propped him gently against the wall, knelt down in front of him and ran his wet mouth against the sliver of belly between the hem of his t-shirt and the waistband of his leathers. “Or you could knock thrice on the wall if your mouth is otherwise occupied,” he said wickedly as an afterthought. He stood up and leaned into Arthur for another kiss, and then grabbed him by the hair and pushed gently down on his head. Arthur tried to kneel but the wall was too close to his heels, and he stumbled and panicked as he started to fall forward. Eames let go of his hair then, caught him gently and then lowered him to his knees.

“Be careful there, darling. Don’t want this to be over before we even start,” Eames said, and then Arthur leaned gratefully into him and kissed him on the hip, breathed against his skin through the wool of his suit. Eames hissed in pleasure as Arthur brushed his lips lightly over the fly of his trousers, letting his breath linger hotly against the jut of his cock.

“Unzip me,” Eames said, his voice hoarse with desire. He pulled on Arthur’s hair again, guided him closer. “Do it with your teeth.” Arthur paused and looked up at him, at the heave of his chest through the suit he was wearing. Something crackled down his spine as their eyes met; the last shreds of his defiance melted, supplanted by desire and something else, something he couldn’t quite name.

Eames ran the fingers of his free hand against Arthur’s temple, stroked the winged line of his brow with his thumb as Arthur bent his head and pressed his lips against Eames’ trouser fly again. He caught the tab of the zipper in his teeth and tugged carefully downwards. The front of Eames’ boxers was wet, the silk sodden with pre-ejaculate. Arthur wet his mouth, took a deep breath and then let his jaw hang loose, the sharp, musky notes of sweat and arousal fragrant and strong in his nose as he closed his mouth around the head of Eames’ cock. Eames grunted softly in pleasure and started to thrust, shallowly at first and then harder, the head of his cock nudging insistently against the shallow well at the back of Arthur’s mouth. Arthur shut his eyes and stifled his gag reflex; lost himself in the taste and texture of his foreskin and the friction against his lips and tongue, let Eames fuck his throat in long, shuddering thrusts.

“You’re hungry for this, aren’t you, you little slut?” Eames growled, and the sound of his voice made Arthur shudder, a thrill of excitement white-hot from the back of his skull to the base of his spine. Part of him was afraid of choking, of embarrassing himself, but another part of him was oddly comfortable – he trusted Eames to know his limits, he realized, identifying the strange feeling that had welled up in the pit of his belly and drowned his fear. Eames’ breathing grew heavier, his movements more frantic as he got closer to climax. Arthur kept the muscles of his throat slack against Eames’ deep, eager thrusts and moved with him. He was so frustrated, his skin tingling with arousal, and his leather jacket was stifling, too warm around his arms and back and he moaned softly around Eames’ cock, shifted his weight slightly as the friction of his fly chafed maddeningly at his own erection.

“I want you to swallow,” Eames gasped, “I want you to taste me all night,” and then he was shuddering, the salt and bleach of his come spilling hot and copious down Arthur’s throat. Arthur swallowed again and again, felt Eames’ cock and balls twitching against his face and tongue. A thin trickle of spunk and spit trickled past his lips as Eames pulled away, exhausted and breathing hard. Arthur let his face rest against Eames' hip while he caught his breath, and then careful hands were pulling on the collar of his jacket, freeing his arms and tugging him up off his knees.

Arthur leaned back against the wall once he regained his feet, fumbled at the zipper of his leathers with numb fingers while Eames kissed him, the touch of his mouth butterfly-light against his eyelids, the bridge of his nose, wet and sure as he licked the spunk off his chin. “God, darling,” Eames whispered, his breath a rush of heat against Arthur’s neck, before he nibbled lightly at the angle of his chin, bit down gently on his earlobe.

"Is it okay if I – ” Arthur whispered hoarsely as he sprang himself free, ran his fingers down the aching shaft of his cock. He needed release so badly, wanted to just stroke himself to climax while Eames watched.

“It’s more than okay,” Eames murmured, “but I want to help.” He reached down past Arthur’s wrist, worked at the buckle of his belt and then paused, looked into his face. Arthur wrapped his arms around his neck, leaned into him and kissed him, brushed his mouth against the soft spot behind his jaw.

Eames half-dragged, half-carried him to the bedroom, pausing briefly while Arthur murmured directions into his ear, and they tumbled into his bed on top of the sheets and comforter. They crashed together like pebbles driven by the incoming tide, breathless with want.

“How do you want to do this? Arthur asked as he fumbled at the knot of Eames’ necktie, pulled the vivid silk loose with a soft rasp against the collar of his shirt and then pressed his lips to the hollow of his throat.

“I think it’s your turn now,” Eames said with a wicked grin as he rolled Arthur over onto his back, half-straddling him. Arthur ran a hand along his flank and stroked him gently through his shirt under his suit jacket, felt the heat of his body and the soft whisper of habutai silk against the back of his hand.

“I want to get this off first,” Arthur said, and Eames rolled off of him and continued undressing while he sat up and shrugged his jacket off his shoulders, pulled his sweat-soaked t-shirt over his head. His engineer boots took a little more effort to remove, but he tugged them off and then unbuckled his belt, peeled his armored leathers off his hips and left them on the floor with his holstered sidearm still inside the waistband.

Eames kissed him hungrily the moment he lay back down, mouth hot and eager against the sharp planes of his collarbones and the line of his neck, biting hard enough to bruise, and he could only gasp in assent and rub the underside of his cock up against Eames’ hard flat belly.

“Where’s the lubricant, Arthur?” Eames murmured breathlessly after a few minutes of that, his mouth slick against Arthur’s chest.

“Left-side nightstand,” Arthur gasped. He fumbled at the drawer, missed, and sagged into the mattress as Eames rolled half over and pulled it open. There was a soft click as Eames popped the bottle top open and squeezed a dollop of lubricant onto his fingers. Arthur gasped softly as Eames grasped him by the right hip; let his thumb linger on the raised knot of scar tissue right over the joint as he ran his slick fingers along the inside of Arthur’s thighs.

“Will you come for me if I finger-fuck you, Arthur?” Eames whispered hoarsely, his callused fingertips brushing gently against the bud of Arthur’s asshole, against the soft skin of his perineum. Arthur gasped, shivered and then swallowed hard, nodded. He was utterly incapable of speech at this point and it felt as though his nerve endings were afire. Eames pushed gently at his right thigh and he drew his knees back, opened himself up to those rough, slippery fingers. Eames slipped one finger into the white heat of his asshole and his vision blurred and dimmed as he arched his back and gasped.

“Slow down, love, I’ve hardly started,” Eames whispered as he pulled himself free, squeezed more lubricant onto his hand and added a second finger. This time he rubbed his fingertips in lazy circles over the bump of Arthur’s prostate, pressing down with maddening gentleness, and Arthur’s vision dimmed as he gasped and hissed and writhed around Eames’ thick fingers.

“Okay. Now you can come for me, darling,” Eames whispered huskily, and Arthur shouted, a hoarse, inarticulate cry as Eames wrapped his mouth around the head of his cock, his velvety tongue flicking over the sensitive corona as his fingers slid further up Arthur’s ass. Eames’ mouth was sharp teeth and silken heat, and Arthur bucked hard, thrust himself upward while he grasped at the comforter, his fingers clenching reflexively as he arched his back and shuddered helplessly under the cruel sweetness of Eames’ ministrations.

“I’m going to – ” Arthur moaned, and then summer lightning swept up his spine, his nerves alight from sensory overload. His awareness dwindled, scoured away by the white-hot bliss of Eames’ mouth and fingers and then there was nothing but the hissing roar of blood in his ears, of Eames’ left hand holding his right as he came hard in the heaven of Eames’ spit-slick mouth. It was a minute or two before he could see again, and he felt as though his bones had turned to water, as he lay spent in bed. The mattress creaked as Eames lay down beside him, and he opened his eyes to the flash of lightning and the distant rumble of thunder, of rain pattering against the windowpanes in a susurrant rush.

“I don’t want this to be personal,” Arthur whispered softly against the sound of the rain, “Not if we have to work together in the future.”

“Who says this has to be personal?” Eames murmured drowsily.

“No strings attached?” Arthur asked as he rolled over onto his side.

“None whatsoever,” Eames whispered into the nape of his neck, and Arthur relaxed and shut his eyes to Eames’ heart pounding against his back, to the sound of his breathing and the tickle of his breath in his hair.


End file.
